Chapter 11
Kai
WASTING brEATH
Nalaka has this annoying habit of being damn good at everything. Like, unnaturally good. Kvirr must’ve kissed her forehead or something, because she never misses a beat and trust me, she loves rubbing that in. I’ll be hearing about it until the day I die, maybe even after.
Well, let’s just say Avilyna wouldn’t have been standing. I was this close to dropping to my knees and losing myself between her thighs.
That scent?
It was pure sin, sweet, dangerous, and fucking addictive. The kind of thing that claws into your brain and doesn't let go. But it wasn’t until I had her pinned, skin against skin, that I nearly lost it. I expected fear, wanted it, but arousal… That came as a surprise.
That she liked it.
Every nerve lit, and with the full moon rising, everything sharpens. Strength, hunger, instincts... The whole beast package.
Taking a deep breath, I sink my teeth into the steak. The meat is barely warm anymore, but it doesn’t matter. I chew slowly, jaw working while my thoughts spiral.
“Okay, uh, hey, broody McBroodface?” Wyll’s voice drifts from behind the fridge, muffled by clinking jars. “What crawled up your spine and died?”
I grunt. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He straightens, head popping out, brow raised, eyes scanning me like I’m a half-solved case file. His hair’s a mess, dark curls sticking up like he just rolled out of bed. Wyll grabs a beer and leans against the counter, as if he’s settling in for a long conversation.
“You’ve been dissecting that steak for thirty minutes, man. That’s not eating. That’s a crime.” He tosses his cowboy hat back on with a flick, inked arms folding across his chest. His eyes narrow on me, and I sigh, raking a hand through my hair.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance in hell.” Wyll takes a swig. “So come on. Spill it. What’s got you all tense and broody? Full moon itch? Existential lycanthropic crisis? Somebody scuffed your favourite boots?”
I grunt and tell him.
Well, some of it. Enough to take the edge off, enough to make him think he’s in the loop, I leave out the parts that matter most. The kind that burrows under your skin and refuses to let go.
Like the weight of her scent, still clinging to me.
The look in her eyes, which I can’t unsee.
And the question that won’t stop echoing in my head:
Is she okay?
Does she feel out of place right now?
Should I check on her?
…And why the hell do I care?
“I get it,” Wyll says, eyes lighting up like he just solved one of the Alveron hidden riddles.
“She’s the first girl who’s not all over you.
That’s why you’re all over her.” Wyll grins like a smug bastard, one long canine catching the light.
I want to knock that smile off his face, I swear to Kvirr, he’s doing this on purpose.
“She just looks… familiar, alright?”
Like I’ve seen her before. Not in passing, not in a crowd.
But in a dream, one that’s been digging at the back of my head ever since I laid eyes on her.
Maybe it’s because she’s Theo’s daughter.
He would mention his daughter whenever he was at the Institute for his next mundane mission assignment.
That has to be it, just family resemblance triggering some déjà vu moment.
Except… It’s not.
Because Avilyna doesn’t look like anyone. And that feeling, that overwhelming, skin-deep knowing. It’s eating at me.
Wyll flops into a chair, straddling it backward. “Dude, what if she touched some ancient magical artifact or something, and now she’s got residual vibes clinging to her? Maybe your brain’s picking up on it, like a magical déjà vu glitch.”
I stare at him deadpan. “And where the hell is she finding ancient artifacts? She lived in the Mundane World.”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They have museums, man. Basically, cursed-object warehouses with gift shops.”
I blink. “What the hell did you smoke? You know the odds of that being real are next to nothing, right? All cursed objects are monitored.”
Wyll shrugs again, unfazed. “I’m just saying, this has enchantment written all over it. Don’t worry, bro, we’ll figure it out.”
I jab a finger at him. “We’re not figuring out shit. She’s a mundane with the sight. Or maybe a witch, whatever. The only thing I know is that she’s got a strong affinity with Kvirr, that’s it. It’s probably just the full moon messing with my head.” Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Wyll throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, if you say so.”
But that damn grin says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
I’m not exactly thrilled about facing the council, but meeting the guy who dragged me into this world? That’s a whole other level of annoying.
When your old man is General Randall Brackwell, the war hero who saved the kingdom while the angel warriors were off chasing Elgar’s damn portals, the man who made sure lycans finally got the respect they deserved, dodging the meeting isn’t really an option.
So here I am, heading to his office, gut clenched in anticipation, trying not to feel like I’m thirteen again. Any second now, one of his guards will announce my arrival, and I’ll have to face whatever’s waiting behind that door.
“Come in!” the General barks.
Great, here we go.
I square my shoulders, step inside like I own the place, because hell, if you show weakness here, it’ll eat you alive. Hand to my forehead, sharp salute, “Sir.”
“I’ve met with Rey’s daughter. Why wasn’t she delivered yesterday?” His voice is cold, sharp as a silver blade. That look in his eyes? Disappointment.
An old friend of mine.
But I keep my eyes locked forward. “We were ambushed by norous. She was injured. We had to stop for the night, sir.”
“An order is an order. I thought you’d learned that by now. Do I have to remind you what happened the last time you failed to accomplish your mission?”
There it is.
That punch to the gut he calls discipline. My jaw tightens, feeling that old wound throb.
“No need, sir. I won’t forget anytime soon.” Shame claws its way in, same as always, cold and unrelenting. I could explain that the mission was technically a win. Rey’s daughter is here; she’s safe.
But that?
That would just be me wasting breath. I learned that the hard way. When it comes to Randall Brackwell, there's only one path, and it's his. Caring only about results. And right now, I'm the one under scrutiny, and when was I not?
“She’s joining the program, and I want you to watch her. Closely. Report anything off.”
He doesn’t even look up, just keeps scribbling, pen scratching across the page.
But his words land heavily; the program isn’t some playground, it’s a training forge.
A three-year crucible designed to break you down and rebuild you from the ashes.
It used to be selective, because if you made it through, you didn’t walk out the same; you came out Legion, a soldier of the Great Northern Army.
A weapon.
Except the Bloodmoon War changed everything. The casualties were too high, and the Institute had to adapt. That’s why I started my training so late, busy rebuilding what we’ve lost. And now, I have only one year left before I’m thrown into the ranks of my next jailor.
Now they accept students as young as ten.
Their curriculum is lighter, and they are forbidden from participating in any active deployments until they turn eighteen.
That’s when they enroll in the Institute’s real program.
But those who think the courses aren’t as hard would be mistaken.
Families who send their children here are offered compensation—blood money, really.
The whispers never stopped, rumours of spies working with Netherworld, and talk of rot spreading from within. Some even say the war was sparked by a traitor. And the valkyries vanishing without a trace?
That only added fuel to the fire.
Too many questions and no real answers.
Meanwhile, the Elgarians scramble. Some climb over the chaos for power, others cling to the old myths that Kvirr chose them. That valkyries were meant to shield us from Netherworld… from Vordak’s endless hunger.
Today, everyone’s just waiting, watching, like it’s some kind of game. But in the end, there are only two kinds of people: the ones who fight, and the ones who fall. And my father made sure I knew exactly where I stood in that equation, a while ago.
“Why?” I ask, curious to see if he’s wary of her, his attention back on me.
“She’s a mundane who took down a norous all on her own, and she’d never even heard of our world. Doesn’t that strike you as…off?” His voice drips with irritation.
“It never crossed my mind,” sarcasm thick in my voice.
My head jerks to the side.
“Watch your tone, boy.”
I spit the red fluid onto the floor and push my hair back. Keeping my back straight, I lower my gaze to meet his. I’m not surprised; it’s his favourite way of communicating ever since Mom and Sammy left us. I am lucky this time it’s only his jewelled hand.
“She’s more than a mundane. Probably a witch who hasn’t awakened yet,” I spat what he wanted to hear.
The General’s jaw finally relaxes. “Good. Good. Glad to see you’re taking your training seriously. Soon enough, you’ll be a Sergeant. Fighting beside me, owning your name.” His hand clamps down on my shoulder, an iron grip of dominance he always needs to show.
Because deep down, we both know who the winner will be if I decide to challenge his authority, but we also know I won’t. Not because I am scared, but because of Sammy.
“Is that all, sir?” I ask, his piercing eyes, the same ones that stare back at me every time I look in the mirror, look back at me, empty of any warmth.
“You’re in charge of patrol tonight. I’m heading to Saltmere tomorrow and won’t be back for a week.
I expect a full report when I return,” he says, already turning back to his massive desk.
“You’re dismissed.” Randall Brackwell doesn’t spare me a second glance.
His words are final, like a slammed door.
He’s done.
No time to waste on someone like me.